


he whose face gives no light

by smokesque



Series: Klance Week 2016 [3]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst, Heaven/Hell, Implied Character Death, Kinda, Klanceweek2k16, M/M, Oops, POV Second Person, and sort of mature (ish) themes, apparently since now, depends how you interpret it though, i guess, i'm rating it t for a little bit of sexual reference, since when did i write like this, this is new
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-06
Updated: 2016-08-06
Packaged: 2018-07-29 17:40:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7693531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smokesque/pseuds/smokesque
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dip him in the river who loves water. A fool sees not the same tree that a wise man sees. He whose face gives no light, shall never become a star. Eternity is in love with the productions of time.<br/>-William Blake, <i>Proverbs of Hell</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	he whose face gives no light

**Author's Note:**

> title taken from ['proverbs of hell'](https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/proverbs-hell) by william blake
> 
> (that was the only link i could find that had a full version but i don't really like the formatting, so sorry for that)
> 
> i'm not too happy with this and i'm not sure if it really even makes sense, but take it and treat it as you will. day 3 is heaven/hell and this is the best i could manage.
> 
> you can read this on my [tumblr](http://ailourophilic.tumblr.com/post/148542135687/i-dont-really-like-how-this-turned-out-and-its) and find out more about klance week [here](http://klanceweek.tumblr.com/).

He looks at you like you’re the last thing left. Like the only hope, the final chance, the end of a dream when you wake up halfway through a freefall.

You hate it.

He holds you in eyes the colour of freshwater springs. You feel smaller than you’d ever imagined. He can wrap you in a single arm and take your breath away in a single touch.

He rubs across your skin in the dead of night (in ways that would make your mother turn up her breakfast). His hands leave traces in places no one’s ever seen in the light of day. Your own fingers don’t compare.

You used to whisper about him like he was something secret. Nasty words stain your conscience.

When will you be young again?

He haunts your clothes but only in silence. What does his voice sound like again? You try not to remember.

His jaw reflects the pain shooting through your knuckles. He still looks beautiful.

(Shine like heaven / burn like hell.)

You dream up a sunset to keep you warm at night. Reds and oranges and pinks paint the inside of your mind. (Who gave the devil a paintbrush?)

A perfect storm rushes through you, disrupting your sunset in eyes the colour of cloudy skies. He is thunder and lightning in the best way, forcing your boat back to harbour because he needs you to come home.

You’ll never leave in this weather.

You’d move heaven and hell for his smile.

(Or you’d move the bed just so he doesn’t have to sleep next to the wall.)

In the morning you’ll lie in blankets that smell like toast and him.

And you’ll lie your way out of another perfect night.

(Too close to heaven, but your foot is in the doorway to hell.)

When his hands touch yours a hundred years from now, will you still remember the calluses along his palms?

Will you still see blue (of springs and storms)?

Will you still set heaven on fire and douse hell in holy water to see the look on his face when his world burns?

 

Can you still love him from six feet under?


End file.
